


Reserve

by Tridraconeus



Series: Preservation [1]
Category: Predator Original Series (1987-1990)
Genre: (attempt), Action, Canon-Typical Violence, Fighting, Gay Bashing, Gen, Gun Violence, Hunters & Hunting, Implied Death, Mercy - Freeform, Murder, POV Alternating, Severe Injury, Suicidal Tendencies, Trans Male Character, suicide by monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-01-27 03:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21385195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tridraconeus/pseuds/Tridraconeus
Summary: It was the hottest summer on record, and what always happened when the weather got hot happened; people got rowdy and pissed and killed each other. There was something in the woods killing people, too, way worse than a simple bar fight or mugging gone wrong.And Noah, well, kind of wanted to die.
Series: Preservation [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1641511
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	1. Hunting Season: Noah

**Author's Note:**

> first chapter in Noah's POV, second chapter in Predator's POV!  
[visual ref of noah!](https://i.imgur.com/aa5vdyX.png) bonus: [Yautja Spotted](https://i.imgur.com/XRMSwqH.png)

**July 19th, 1985**

**Ohio**

Noah’s fifteenth birthday was a week ago. He didn’t expect anything special to happen— he went up to the roof with the three people he’d invited and watched the stars. His house wasn’t that big. It used to be a farmhouse, now it was just a regular house. There was a chicken coop and a vegetable garden below. There used to be sheep, but it got too expensive.

He made a wish on a shooting star, but forgot what it was almost as soon as he’d made it.

Then they went inside and slept on the living room floor.

Noah couldn’t pinpoint when he knew he wanted to die. He knew he didn’t have any real reason for it, either. It wasn’t a sudden realization, like being hit by something, and it wasn’t a gradual appearance of an urge.

It had simply been absent one day and present the next, a haze that made it hard to tell if it hadn’t always been there. He functioned well enough regardless. He learned to ignore the desire to jump off of the roof, or stab himself through the wrist with a pencil, or crash the car.

It would be nice, he thought, to go to sleep for a very long time and wake up when the fog had lifted or else never wake up at all. Dying would hurt the people who cared about him, which was the only reason he’d held off thus far. He set a rule for himself, when the urge stayed with him like a tick; he’d live to his fifteenth birthday, and if he still wanted to die then, he’d do it.

He always had his birthday right after it got hot, and there would be a month or two of heat before the temperature evened out.

About twenty-five years back, a group of hunters who had gone down to hunt some sheep-eater wolves had disappeared and never been found. The trips stopped for a couple of months, but started right back up, and nothing of the sort had happened since. It was brushed off as wild dogs, or those wolves, or even bears.

Three days after Noah’s birthday, a group of hunters went into the forested valley to hunt deer. They didn’t radio in when they said they would; two days later, a search party was sent out, and they didn’t return either.

It was a murderer, people were saying, but in a small town like Noah’s everybody knew everybody, and there was no point in waiting for someone to disappear into the trees to kill them. Anybody who went missing would be missed. No point in doing it behind God’s back.

Except Noah— he was pretty sure nobody would miss him. He knew he was weird. Hell, he’d let his parents pick out a new name for him and they still messed up and called him Jennifer sometimes.

They tried, though. They didn’t hit him or kick him out. They said they’d always wanted a son. He was one of the lucky ones.

A week from his fifteenth birthday, he couldn’t sleep. His pajamas stuck to him with his own sweat and even the flies were too hot to buzz around. They were big bluebottles, fat and shiny when he turned his bedroom light on and just alive enough to trundle away through the air when he waved them off of his dresser.

He got dressed. Jeans. His binder. A tee-shirt. His denim vest. He picked his pocket knife— a trapper knife, a gift when he was ten from his grandfather— up from the dresser top and took the flashlight right beside it.

Things that went down into the valley when it was this hot died, and Noah wanted to die.

It was cooler outside of the house, though not by much. It was still hot but no longer sweltering when he reached the treeline. The moon hung above, swollen and full, so he didn’t need his flashlight at first. He kept his hand in his pocket regardless, the other hand clutching his pocketknife.

Noah didn’t know what had killed the hunters— no one did, really, and nobody wanted to stay in the valley long enough to find out. They swept over to look for bodies and found none. They said it was animals.

Animals left traces. Blood, or bone. They either didn’t find anything or found something too horrible to describe; the remnants of an animal’s feast, corpses scattered around?

Something rustled behind him and he turned, apathy giving way to fear for a brief moment. He held his pocketknife up, turned and brandished it into the moonlit branches.

Nothing.

Probably a squirrel. He let the knife fall to his side and turned again, hopping up onto a fallen trunk and then back down. The leaf litter crunched underfoot. It burned, sometimes, but never hot or long enough to catch the old trees on fire. Even the animals weren’t scared of it.

He paused to catch his breath after twenty minutes of sustained walking, hopping over branches and stones or struggling with bushes and brambles. He leaned against the nearest tree and sighed, closing his eyes and tipping his head back. If he breathed in fast enough, the sensation made the air almost feel cold. It had a sweet, decomposing smell. The predators here didn’t drag their prey up trees, so maybe it was one of the twine noose traps like Noah used to make. They were twists of twine with little loops in them, set on branches; eventually, squirrels or other tree animals would get lazy and run into them, and slip off of the branch and strangle. Lazy kids or bad hunters sometimes forgot where they’d put their traps and the prey got left behind to be eaten by flies and scavengers. Probably somebody had put one up and then got too scared to come back into the valley when the killings started.

He screamed when he opened his eyes. Suspended from the trees like hellish pendulums, skinned and decapitated, were the missing hunters and the search party— at least, he guessed they were. Nobody else had come down into the valley that he knew of, except for him. He brandished his knife again, at nothing.

He caught the glimmer of moonlight on something in his periphery and pulled his hand back. A disc-like blade flew past him and embedded itself in the tree across— he’d found his hunter.

He’d expected a bear.

He turned in the direction of the weapon’s origin, gritting his teeth. He held his pocketknife in one hand and the flashlight in the other, casting the bright white glow over what he could of the seemingly deserted forest floor.

Nothing.

Up.

_ Something_, a hideous beast crouched on a branch. Moonlight caught a helmet on its head and the contours of an armored loincloth and pauldrons. _ This _ was the death he was looking for.

“Fight me!” Noah shouted, demanded, even as his voice tightened, and the creature dropped from its perch with supreme grace. Two wickedly long, sharp-looking blades sprang from a gauntlet on its wrist.

It leapt at him, almost like a paper cutout against the luminescence of the moonlight, expecting him to turn and run— or back up and aim. It expected him to try and make distance. Throw something, maybe. 

He knew better than that, or else _ didn’t _ know better, and lunged forward with his pocketknife up. The thing went soaring over him and caught itself against a tree, wheeling around and launching at him again. He jumped to the side and caught it— caught it!-- along the arm with his pocketknife. It was a trapper knife, a skinning knife, it cut through tendons and tough skin well enough, but he felt it impress into the springy muscle of the creature’s bicep and saw it come away bloodless, glinting in the moonlight. The thing snarled, chittered something at him, and gave up on graceful movements to simply lift him by the front of his vest and throw him.

It moved just fast enough that he couldn’t do anything about it but just slow enough that he couldn’t help but see it coming— there was no way to avoid smashing into the brambles, but at least it wasn’t a tree. He’d be crippled for sure, hitting solid wood that hard. Instead he skidded through the brambles, crying out as they ripped his arms to shreds— not his face, because he’d shielded himself. He came to a bloodied rest a good few inches clear of the bramble patch even though he’d taken roughly half of it with him. He lost his grip on the flashlight, letting it roll away and illuminate the thing, tracking his body slowly, not even a lope.

Stalking. It didn’t expect him to be able to get up and run. 

Noah tried to get up, and maybe the thing was right. Even adrenaline failed to serve him here.It shifted out of the beam of the flashlight, less visible though not by much. Noah liked taking walks at night when there was a full moon because of how clear everything was— he saw the thing retract its wristblades with a soft _ snickt _ sound. The message was clear enough, even with it far enough away that it couldn’t hit him. He was being spared— he was lucky. 

_ Lucky_. He didn’t want to be lucky.

“Why?” He wasn’t crying. He was grateful for that, even as he was sprawled out on his ass with the massive thing staring at him. “Kill me! Why won’t you kill me?”

It didn’t afford him a step closer or a threatening gesture of its now-hidden weapon. It still looked terrifying, but now also disinterested. Disappointed, maybe. 

<<_Looks like a young one,_>> the thing rumbled in a voice that definitely didn’t belong to it. It made another chittering noise and moved out of the beam of the flashlight. Noah could see it well enough even without the light— the moon was full and the trees were far apart here. It shook its head. <<_Beat the stupid fight right outta him!_>> In yet _ another _ voice, this one harsh and jeering, drunk. Noah shivered despite the heat.

He’d wanted the thing to kill him, not scare him to death. The metallic helmet it wore caught the moonlight as it tilted its head, sizing Noah up. His head, Noah decided, looking at the armored loincloth it wore.

“I put up a good fight,” he cried at him, and then was _ actually _ crying, frustrated, hurting, not even the effort to kill for a creature that found killing effortless. “I put up a good fight!” Again. He gripped the handle of his pocketknife and tried to do something with it but couldn’t quite decide what it was he wanted to do, so his hand weakly spasmed on the handle instead. He was _ arguing _ with the thing to kill him. Heat rose in his face, even hotter than his surroundings. He glared down the beast; propped himself up on his elbows and snarled at it, even smeared with tears as his vision was.

He was met with another shake of the head. <<_We’ll get it next season,_>> the hunter said again. Jovial. Familiar. The thing was speaking with the voice of one of the murdered hunters. Noah’s throat tightened up in another cry, angry that it didn’t see him as worthy and horrified of what it had done to the hunters and the search party.

“You fucker!”

It shimmered and disappeared, but Noah knew the woods and knew the crackle and crunch of brambles. It was just… walking away from him. What a time for a killer to grow a conscience! He shuddered out a breath, halfway into a sob. He had to wait until he’d stopped shaking to get up and pick up his flashlight. After that, there really wasn’t anything else to do but go home.

He didn’t tell anyone about the bodies.


	2. Hunting Season: Predator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hadn’t really intended for the kill to take place here, but it was a fitting enough place as any. The Prey cringed back in the same moment the Hunter threw his blade, and turned just as quickly as he pulled out the other weapon in his pocket.

The Hunter wasn’t inexperienced. He enjoyed the rhythm of the hunt, the cunning of his prey, and the satisfaction of a hunt well-executed, the pride of a new trophy.

For all his experience, he hadn’t encountered a Prey like this before. Most of his prey thought themselves the hunters, in search of wild game or enemies, and offered a brief thrill before they died.

This Prey knew his role and was unafraid. He entered the wooded valley by way of an animal trail, but diverged from it soon enough. The Hunter followed, simply learning the practiced motions of his quarry. Earlier, there had been a group of men with rifles and pistols; before them, an organized group of hunters. Years ago, more hunters. This valley was rich with prey to hunt, and the Hunter thought he was familiar with all of it. Not _ this _ one. This was new.

This Prey wasn’t really going anywhere. He had a pocketknife out, but wasn’t looking for anything with focus or purpose. He was looking, of course, listening carefully— he’d caught the Hunter once, but was unable to see him, and pointed his knife at what appeared to be thin air for a long moment before huffing and turning back to his aimless wandering. The Hunter got a somewhat better look at him when he turned; dark brown hair, close-cropped at one point but now grown out the slightest bit. Dark green eyes. Ambiguous features, muddying the line between juvenile and grown.

The Hunter wasn’t sure whether this Prey was an adult or not. He knew that of the species, men and children were the most foolhardy, and the behavior of this one was most definitely male. The Prey’s heat signature was smothered by thicker clothes— three layers on its chest, a vest, a thin shirt, and something else underneath that was more substantial than an undershirt. A protective layer, maybe? The Prey was relatively cold all over, too, not a measured coolness of neutrality but rather mottled spots of cold in his arms and legs. 

The Prey kept a steady pace for a few minutes and then leaned against a tree to rest, wiping sweat from his brow and letting his chest heave. Once. Then, his breathing was caged again. It was purposeful. Even though he thought he was alone, the Prey was putting on a performance.  _ For who? _

The Hunter’s thought was interrupted by a scream, horrified, the Prey recoiling and pointing his knife at the corpses hanging by their feet like they might come alive. 

He hadn’t really intended for the kill to take place here, but it was a fitting enough place as any. The Prey cringed back in the same moment the Hunter threw his blade, and turned just as quickly as he pulled out the other weapon in his pocket.

No weapon. A flashlight, a strong one, flicking on and sweeping the ground. 

The Prey lifted the beam up and finally caught the Hunter in the light. The Hunter expected him to cry out, to scream, to flee or attack. He didn’t; his mouth was open, showing his teeth.

“Fight me!” He shouted, thrusting both his knife and flashlight into the darkness. He was a demanding little Prey. The Hunter would oblige; it would perhaps not be much of a fight, since these Prey relied heavily on their primitive guns and numbers, but if the Prey wished for it, the Hunter would oblige. He jumped from the branch. The fall was short and the landing gentle, cushioned by decomposing leaves and other forest litter. He straightened; the Prey’s eyes widened as he did, bulk lengthening to his full height. If they were standing right next to each other, the Prey would barely reach his chest.

Something was wrong. Maybe this Prey was too young. 

Still, in the moonlight and the flickering thermogram, it was hard to tell. He’d just have to be careful until he could confirm. He flexed his wrist, extending his wristknives and engaging the locking mechanism, and pounced on the Prey.

He dashed forwards instead and managed to slip under him, right between his reaching arms, and the Hunter had to dig his wristknives into a tree trunk to whip around and go at the Prey again. 

Eluded, again. Someone used to not getting hit. Not the tactical skill of military, but rather a more reactive evasion.

His favored Prey fought back, but he knew of some Hunters who preferred to hunt the unhuntable; creatures with uncanny reflexes or camouflage far beyond even Yautja technology. There were special trophies for those prey; a messy death meant a poor hunter. Clean, painless deaths were the goal there. 

Again, not his favored prey, and  _ this  _ Prey was fighting back. He dug his knife into the Hunter’s arm as he flew past but was unable to pierce his skin. The Prey skipped back, holding his knife and flashlight up. His teeth were bared and the moonlight caught the whites of his eyes. Maybe an adult. Maybe a child. Hard to tell. His grip on the knife was sure and practiced but his body didn’t seem fully-developed.

The Hunter surged forward before the Prey had a chance to react or try to stab him again, lifting him by the worn denim of his vest and tossing him— not to a tree trunk, where he’d impact and be stunned and most definitely seriously hurt, but to a bramble patch.

The Prey’s eyes widened and he shot through the brambles, sprawled across the ground and let go of his flashlight, but the movement was wrong. It wasn’t serious injury. Experienced, unafraid Prey shouldn’t take a throw like that. The Hunter stepped out of the flashlight’s glare and took another, better look to where the moonlight fell on the Prey’s face. The thermogram remained the same, of course, but the Prey’s features weren’t adult at all now that he was in the light. He’d taken him to be a small adult, perhaps; he’d walked with confidence and purpose, not like a trespassing child out past curfew. He hadn’t whimpered and whined until he’d been tossed, and those were cries of pain, not fear, and caged almost as quickly as they’d come. His arms were lacerated and scraped, brambles clinging onto his jeans and vest. He flopped on the ground like a fish out of water, twitching and squeezing the handle of his knife. Stunned, but fighting it.

The Hunter had seen a change in some Prey, when they realized there was no victory or escape; they became unafraid of death. The most satisfying battles rose from those Prey. Some Prey gave up; they huddled and cried or simply waited to die.

They didn’t  _ want _ to die, though. There was no sport in hunting Prey that wanted to die.

_ And _ there was no sport in killing Prey too young to be hunted.

The Hunter recategorized him as Not-Prey. Boy. Young. He retracted his wrist-blades and saw the change in expression on the Not-Prey’s face, a twist not of relief but of betrayal and dismay.

“Why?” Yes, his voice was definitely that of a juvenile. He’d been affecting a lower tone earlier. The Not-Prey’s voice shook. “Kill me! Why won’t you kill me?”

The Hunter called up the right vocalization. He could communicate in his own language, but it would be easier and faster to play something back that the Not-Prey could understand. << **Looks like a young one** . You aren’t old enough to be Prey.>>

He thought a little more. He didn’t want to congratulate the Not-Prey on his struggle, because in the grand scheme of things it hadn’t been much of anything. Something else, to get his message— that it was over— through to him. << **Beat the stupid fight right outta him!** >>

The Not-Prey drew in a sharp breath. It hitched halfway through on building rage. 

“I put up a good fight,” he cried out, free hand scrabbling in the dirt. Then, as if the Hunter couldn’t hear him or perhaps would change his mind if told enough, “I put up a good fight!”

His hand clenched around the knife again and twisted, managed to get his elbows behind him enough to look at the Hunter a little better and get his shoulders off the ground.

It took a moment, but he realized that the boy was asking to be Prey. He’d been interesting enough, had promise despite— perhaps in spite of— being young— had been able to dodge the Hunter more than once. Later. He’d be back when he got permission again. He liked the Hunt on this planet. He shook his head, a universal enough gesture of refusal. The hunters he’d hunted had the same conversation about a young buck scraping its antlers on a tree. It fit well enough. << **We’ll get it next season.** >> 

The Not-Prey’s eyes widened, then narrowed, cycling through horror, revulsion, and anger in turn. His jaw dropped, showing his teeth again, but with little threat this time. Then, threat. Lips pulled back. Brows knitted. “You fucker!”

The Hunter left him there on the ground, turning away and engaging his cloak. 

Next time. There were other Prey to hunt before the weather cooled. 


	3. In Season: Noah

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is the largest chapter? My goal was for all chapters to cap out at around 2300/2500 words. Regardless, I had a lot to say and with a timeskip there's always a fair amount of backtracking necessary!

**July 15th, 1990**

**Ohio**

He was stupid and he deserved this. He’d gone out drinking with some old buddies from high school— what a joke, they weren’t _ friends_— and forgot that he’d moved to a college town where people didn’t know his bits didn’t match. 

He’d tried to join the army before that, and got halfway through bootcamp before they told him he had to go. 

Because his _ bits _ didn’t match. Stupid as hell if anybody asked him, which nobody did. He’d gotten top surgery as a gift for his eighteenth birthday, recovered over the summer, and moved into the dorms. Out of state. Ecology. They told him he wouldn’t be able to do shit with it, but it was better than agriculture, or electrical engineering. He’d probably end up double-majoring with ecology and agriculture anyways. Better than staying here where his only options after high school were alcoholism or the military.

He’d tried the military and it didn’t work out. He wasn’t keen on trying alcoholism.

So, college. It was a trade-off. Alcoholism would probably be cheaper. 

He’d gotten mildly drunk. There were three other people with him, all men, talking about the farm or their trucks, or their cigars. It turned to _ blacks_, which was worrying and wrong, but he just sucked at his beer can and stayed quiet-- maybe it made him weak. It probably did, but he’d gotten a lot of practice staying quiet in the face of bullshit. He’d rather be weak than dead. It turned to _ gays _, which made his chest tighten and his heart speed up. 

It turned to _ damned queers _ and he said he had to go. It was a quarter to two in the morning and almost closing time. 

He paid his tab and slid out the back door, but they were onto him and they hadn’t forgotten that _ he _ was a damn queer. Now that they were suitably wet with beer and whiskey, they had a mind to do something about it.

He ran, but it was a new moon and all the lights were off. He had his pocketknife in his back pocket, but everyone had a pocketknife and if he took out his they’d take out theirs too. If he let them catch him and kick him around a little they’d probably get bored and leave him be. 

If he ran away, they wouldn’t be able to hurt him at all, so he ran. 

One of them threw a beer bottle at him. It caught him in the back of the head and staggered him long enough for them to catch him, to mob him and drag him to the ground, bashing at him with fists and their boots. He curled up and guarded his face with his arms; he knew better than to scream for help. One of the kicks impacted particularly viciously and his arm erupted in fiery pain, but he bit his lip and didn’t cry out. They kicked and stomped on his chest and legs. 

It had been a while, but this was something he knew better than to let get out of practice. 

Don’t cry. Don’t scream. 

There was a girl like him at his college in one of his classes and they talked, sometimes, about how their bottom lips had a groove from being bitten on. More often they jokingly talked of a bodyswap and then put on the radio and returned to their books. 

He liked her. She was a friend to him. 

They didn’t _ stop_. He didn’t scream or cry but his entire body was sore and now cut up from being shoved across pebbled, worn asphalt. 

They gave him a few more lackluster kicks to the side and then pulled back. The beer must be wearing off. They stood around him in a loose semicircle and panted, hands on their hips or foreheads or backs. Bracing, supporting. Evaluating. 

“Fuck.” 

“Fucker,” the other agreed. 

“We just go down to the valley with the guns. I don’t see what the problem is.” 

Noah coughed and tried to get onto his elbows. He got kicked in the back of the head for his trouble. His vision crossed and swam, went double. He didn’t try again.

They gripped him and hustled him back to the bar parking lot, to a pickup truck, one of them pushing him against the red paint and the others getting in to rustle about. His hands were yanked behind him and fastened together so tightly with a ziptie that the hard plastic bit into his skin. His arm that was probably fractured if not _ broken _ hurt so damn bad. White dots popped in and out of his vision and he still couldn’t see entirely straight. 

They’d fucked up, they all knew. They’d fucked _ him _ up. Now they were going to kill him. 

If they had no shame about it they wouldn’t go to the trouble of doing it behind God’s back. They’d just do it in the trash lot outside the bar’s back entrance and leave him there. At least this way he’d die in the trees.

It was a stupid, delirious thought and it didn’t make him laugh. 

They tossed him in the bed with the hunting rifles— the bed was still burning hot from the sun beating down all damn day, but he didn’t cry and he didn’t scream— and set off to the valley. 

There were no roads in except for the main one that cut through but they parked on the side of the road at the entrance. They dragged him back down and dragged him again through the brush, holding their guns. How far in were they going to go? Outside of the bar, it was sweltering. It wouldn’t take long at all for maggots to make a nest of his body. 

That was a part of ecology, decomposition. He’d be doing a very important thing for the life of the forest. He tried to cling to his last moments of life, remembering how the air felt cold if he breathed in fast enough. Anything deeper than the barest breath made his vision pop with white spots. 

“Just fuckin’ _ shoot_. Choose somewhere and shoot. You’re not a dog tryin’ to find where to take a shit.”

He shook Noah. Noah flopped limply. No point in fighting. His ribs were probably broken. His left arm was definitely fractured.

<<_You fucker!_>>

That was his voice! Not his voice right now, but higher— threaded with anger and fear, exhaustion. Years ago. He’d been a child then. He didn’t remember much from that night except for that— yelling at the withdrawing, mimicking beast. It must be back. 

The man at his back fell, suddenly missing a head. Red splattered Noah’s back and the forest floor behind him. The other two men started screaming, but he just fell to his knees and then to his side. He hurt too much to want to run. Maybe it would kill him. Running. The thing. Pain. A stray bullet. 

No matter what happened, he knew he was a dead man.

The others died in short order. He heard gunshots and then something else, a low-pitched sizzle and then the sound of cracking wood, the smell of seared flesh, and more screaming. Quiet, after that. 

He _ felt _ more than _ saw _ the thing come close to him. His hands were still ziptied behind his back, coldly numb by now but also the least of his problems. 

The plastic of the ziptie fell away. His hands moved from the forced proximity by themselves, but he didn’t have the energy or strength to do anything more. His fractured arm eased out of numbness to pulsing, pricking heat just adjacent to pain.

He was left alone for a while. He heard the unmistakable scraping sound of a knife on bone even though his woozy, buzzing headspace. There was rustling. It must be hanging the bodies up. It hung the bodies up, then it skinned them. It killed them first. Noah didn’t know why getting the order right made him so pleased. God, he hurt so much. 

Finally the noises stopped. The thing came over to him again. It grabbed him by the back of his shirt, picked him up just enough to drag him, and this time he did cry out.

Then he blacked out. 

He woke up in a campsite of some sort. The thing— his savior? He had the feeling it was much more the behavior of a snapping, snarling dog crouched over a scrap of meat than any truly altruistic urge or action— was sitting with its back against a tree. It was wiping down a strange sort of sword that had a little ridge in the middle of the blade.

The thing clicked something and the blade retracted down to the ridge; then, again, and it shot back up. It returned to wiping it down with a small cloth. 

Noah felt a little like an intruder. 

He didn’t feel in as much pain as he was earlier. His head didn’t feel cottony or muddled, and his upper arm felt sore but fine. His chest felt some degree worse than his arm, but nowhere as bad as it had before, so, fine. His face was a distant kind of sore and he had plenty of bruises, but the most serious injuries were far less severe or simply gone.

He woke properly and sat up. He realized he’d been stripped down to his underwear when he felt dirt on his legs and bark on his back.

He cleared his throat. The thing looked up at him for a moment. It looked back down when he didn’t say anything. He felt kind of stupid and very uncomfortable sitting there in his skivvies. The thing probably wouldn’t get it or have any sympathy; they were now in the same arena of clothedness, and except for the netting covering most of the thing’s body Noah still had the advantage of having partially-covered thighs. The thing didn’t seem to mind its near-nakedness. 

It didn’t have to worry when even a tendon knife couldn’t get through its hide, Noah thought bitterly. Stupid thing. 

It wasn’t stupid, he was just mad. It had saved him, for whatever purpose, and he hadn’t even said anything to it yet. 

“Thank you,” he settled on. 

It dug in its wrist gauntlet for something, then tossed him a clear capsule filled with something green. It mimed wiping the side of its face and its chest, then popped out its wristblades and took the cleaning cloth to them.

Noah obediently cracked the capsule open along the seam, gathering a fair amount of the green goop in his hand and rubbing it into the side of his face that hurt the worst. He put the rest into his palm and smeared it across his chest. The capsule dissolved into tiny flecks that dissolved even further. No wonder nobody ever found traces of these things; they had a level of efficiency that would make an environmentalist weep. He used the remnants to rub his wrists. They’d probably already had something done to them; he expected to see ugly red marks, but there were only faint bruises.

It felt cold for a few seconds, then faded out into tingles. A lingering ache for another few seconds after that. Then nothing but phantom soreness.

Actual soreness, when he palmed at his cheek, but faint. 

He looked around and saw his clothes piled by the fire. To get to them, he had to get closer to the hunter. It probably wouldn’t take his advance as a threat, but then again he’d just been beaten up for trying to run away. His night was _ not _ going well. 

He crept forward, trying to stay quiet to avoid surprising the hunter. He managed to get within a foot of his pile before it decided to act, hissing loudly and nearly shoving its wristblades into his very vulnerable face.

“No, no.” He stopped on his knees and threw his hands up, shying back from being shish-kebabed. “I just wanna get my clothes, I just wanna get dressed.”

The thing hissed at him more softly and lowered its wristblade, allowing Noah to _ slowly _ reach out and drag his clothes back to himself. 

He retreated to his tree and stood, tugging on his shirt and pants, then putting his shoes back on. He was able to move comfortably; the lack of pain where broken bones should cause pain proved that he was healed, somehow. He sat down again, sighed, and looked up to the sky. With a full moon, it wasn’t as bright as daylight but still the world was illuminated. 

With a new moon, the world was dark and the sky shined. Noah learned how to navigate using the stars when he was younger. If not for the hunter sitting across from him, he could almost believe he was sixteen again and sitting by a fire with his father during hunting season. Sitting on his pocketknife in this position wasn’t comfortable and only served to remind him that he’d have to use it soon, so he slipped it from his back pocket to his front. The hunter was looking at him, but it looked down again when he looked up. 

Now that things were calmer and he had his clothes on he felt comfortable enough to take a good look-- his _ first _ good look-- at the hunter. What he could see of it was pale green-gray, not quite matching with the green of the trees; it had little mottled spots of darker, more saturated green on what Noah could see of its chest, and stripes of the same dark green on its arms and legs. What he initially took to be some sort of attachment on the helmet or else a really weird hairstyle resolved to something fleshier. Ornamented. The thing must be proud of them. He looked at the stars again.

The buzzing of flies. An owl hooting. Far off, a wolf howling, and a scream of a rabbit as it died. Reality lifted away for long minutes, sudden tiredness joining his strange calm, but Noah knew better than to fall asleep. He still closed his eyes and dozed, listening for the sound of the hunter’s cloth on its weapon and the soft crackle of the fire. 

He woke up when it got hotter. The hunter was in a different position, though still across from him; sitting cross-legged with its wrist gauntlet popped open and an array of capsules and tiny tools exposed. 

He’d fallen asleep. He shouldn’t blame himself, but he did. 

Stupid. He could have been killed. He was going to be killed, inevitably, and being left to his own side of the fire to stay alive for a little longer didn’t make him feel any better. He checked his arm, his ribs, and found them much more improved than even before he fell asleep. The sky wasn’t so dark— it was maybe a half hour from sunrise.

“I feel like I’m marked,” into the air, a plain statement to see if he’d get a response.

The hunter grumbled. Noah shrugged. 

“You know. Hunters will mark their prey. So they can come back and kill it later. People like me… I guess people like me just have a mark, and everyone thinks we get to be hunted.”

It sounded stupid to say, stupider still with the hunter across from him. “And I can’t go back. I’ll be blamed. I can’t do anything about it.” He laughed, more of a hysterical whimper. Rubbed the sore side of his face, helped along to mild redness by the weird green gel. It had skipped a bruise entirely. Nice. “I’m dead anyway.”

<<_Come back and kill it later,_>> the hunter echoed.

“You can. I can’t do anything about it.” He leaned back against the tree and tucked his knees up to his chest. The hunter hissed, very softly, and Noah didn’t have to listen very hard to hear disappointment. He shrugged. 

“Yeah, after you let me go, we read a short story about a circus elephant. The ringmaster tied it with rope to a stake when it was a baby, and even though it tugged and tugged it was stuck. So it didn’t tug anymore. Then it grew up, and it never tried to get free even though it could. Because it had been taught that it couldn’t. Learned helplessness. ‘S what it’s called. It thought it couldn’t get free so it never tried.” He folded his arms over his knees. He could move a lot more easily than before thanks to whatever the hunter had put on him. 

<<_Thought_,>> the hunter repeated to him in his own voice. It it had been a hiss, maybe Noah would have heard reproach. Noah laughed, surprised, and it _ was _ kind of funny.

“Yeah, _ thought_. You’ll get a fight outta me yet, huh?”

It chittered, grumbled, and went back to its many weapons— this time the thing that was on its shoulder, dissembled on the forest floor in front of it. It was wiping down and rotating little pieces with the same practiced maintenance movements Noah used on the old family rifle. It never really left it, just looked up to make sure that Noah wasn’t going to do something stupid. 

“Be sporting. Give me a head start, or something.” He knew he didn’t really have a choice about whether he wanted to participate or not. At least if the hunter agreed to giving him some semblance of a fighting chance he’d feel like he did something. 

It grumbled. It made another chittering noise, then a clacking noise different from vocalizations that Noah had heard before.

<<_Head start_,>> it agreed.


	4. In Season: Predator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just fuckin’ _shoot._ Choose somewhere and shoot. You’re not a dog tryin’ to find where to take a shit.”  
The sudden speech almost made him jolt, but he was too well-seasoned to betray alarm even if he wasn’t out of sight and fully cloaked.  
They’d already had their hunt, he realized, and scrutinized the scene more closely to find that the Not-Prey had his wrists secured behind his back with a plastic strip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two more weeks!

The Hunter returned, leaving his craft in the thickest part of the valley and venturing into the more lightly wooded areas to find prey.

It didn’t take long. Three days of stalking, laying in wait, and relearning the terrain rewarded him with a thermogram of four people, three of them holding guns.

One of them was injured and being carry-dragged by two by his elbows. The group was making their way through the groundcover with moderate success, swinging their guns to bat down bushes and brambles. 

The Hunter stayed above and managed to ID one— funny. The Not-Prey. Irregular hotspots evidenced subcutaneous bleeding and broken bones, and plenty of external bleeding as well. His arms were almost solidly red where he’d likely guarded his face. His left hand couldn’t close— fractured arm. The Hunter could hear his raspy, labored breathing even far above, shallow and strained. Breathing must be painful. Ribs, probably. A hunting trip? A hunting accident?

“Just fuckin’  _ shoot _ . Choose somewhere and shoot. You’re not a dog tryin’ to find where to take a shit.”

The sudden speech almost made him jolt, but he was too well-seasoned to betray alarm even if he wasn’t out of sight and fully cloaked. 

They’d already had their hunt, he realized, and scrutinized the scene more closely to find that the Not-Prey had his wrists secured behind his back with a plastic strip. 

They’d injured him, immobilized him, and intended to kill him. They truly were bad blood, but so many humans were bad blood. It wasn’t the Hunter’s job to deal with them. 

They were his game to hunt. The Hunter was closer to an Elder than a Youngblood, and so had a suitable grasp on human  _ humor _ , and could appreciate it. He called up an old vocalization from the Bio-Helm’s memory banks, to be sporting, before he began.

<< **You fucker!** >>

The Prey holding the Not-Prey was the first to die, shot cleanly in the head with the Plasmacaster. 

The Not-Prey collapsed, first to his knees, then to his side as if overcome with exhaustion. The remaining Prey brandished their guns and shot into the trees where the Hunter was, and he took a deep, satisfied breath; flexed his wrist to call his wristblades; and pounced. 

They clearly weren’t used to an enemy that ran at them rather than away; probably just chasing away coyotes and scrawny, starved wolves, or maybe a young bear. 

They liked targets that couldn’t fight back. The Hunter finished them quickly, avoiding messy, panicked rifle shots that flew painfully wide into the underbrush. He fired his Plasmacaster twice more to block their escape when they tried to run; finished the both of them by piercing them through the heart with his wristblades. 

He picked up the rifles and tossed them in a pile, then turned to the slumped, limp figure of the Not-Prey. He was still conscious but mainly unreactive, breathing shallowly to minimize the pain. The Hunter crouched behind him to slice cleanly through the plastic restraint. 

Now that he wasn’t in danger of losing limbs to blood loss, the Hunter turned his attention from the Not-Prey and got to work on the bodies.

He cut out the parts he wanted to keep first. Then, he hung them up by the ankles in the trees. Skinning Prey after a successful hunt was a meditative process. He reflected on the fight; their eyes as they died; the final, spasmodic struggle at the end of his blades. Watching blood drain from the bodies onto the dirt meant that their life was over, and that it ran over his hands meant that he had taken it.

He could make a fire here and fix the Not-Prey, give him some amount of time to recover, and see if he’d be suitable for the Hunt. 

Last time he saw the bodies he’d screamed, though, and even thought that had been years ago the Hunter didn’t necessarily want a repeat. 

Either way, the stink of death would draw other predators soon and he wanted to have some peace to do maintenance on his gear. He stood, picked up the Not-Prey by the back of his shirt— he cried out— and left to find another place to rest. 

He put the Not-Prey down when he found a good spot. It was relatively clear and had a place to make a small fire. It wasn’t even enough to be considered a clearing, but it was a break in the trees and brambles with a spot covered in gravel that was clearly used as a campfire base. 

The Hunter wasn’t badly injured at all. The Not-Prey was. It wouldn’t be sporting to set him loose for the Hunt while in such a bad starting state. He pulled out his medikit, undressed the Not-Prey until he was mostly bare, and felt out the injuries; smeared medigel on them and left the Not-Prey on the opposite side of the fire. The clothes were kept on his side. He’d felt a pocketknife in the back pocket of the jeans when undressing the Not-Prey. 

He knew he could use it. Why hadn’t he used it earlier?

He pulled his sword from the back-sheath, extended it to full, and withdrew a cleansing cloth to polish it. The Not-Prey stayed down for roughly an hour as the medigel did its job on him. If there were any injuries he’d missed, when the gel got into his bloodstream it would fix him up well enough. 

There was something in the locking mechanism of his retracting blade that made it hitch when it was extended. He pulled out a cleaning cloth to get into the hinge and find whatever it was; maybe old, dried blood, maybe the ever-present dust of this planet. The entire environment knew he wasn’t supposed to be here, and aside from the hottest months it seemed to fight to keep him out. 

Yes, he liked this planet. 

The Not-Prey finished pretending to be asleep and sat up, hesitant and gradually, touching himself at his healing injuries and squirming as his bare skin met bark and pebbles. Humans were all so  _ soft _ . The Not-Prey bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, cleared his throat, but just as quickly wrinkled his nose and smoothed his expression back out. Another moment passed. The Hunter looked back down and worked a grain of sand from the locking mechanism of his blade. There! Now it engaged smoothly, none of the split-second crunching or pauses that the intruding sand had caused. He retracted his blade and put it back in its sheath.

“Thank you.” The Not-Prey was still looking at him. The side of his face was still red and swollen, even after the previous application of medigel, and the way he’d touched his side and arm with tender apprehension betrayed their remaining injury. The Hunter picked a capsule of it from the medikit in his gauntlet and tossed it over, indicating where the Not-Prey should put it in a few swift movements. He closed the gauntlet again and engaged the wristblades. Those were clean, mostly, but if he didn’t give them at least a little wipedown there was the possibility of degradation. 

The Not-Prey obediently wiped the medigel on his injuries. There were two old scars on his chest that the Hunter couldn’t really identify; the source was obviously medical, like he’d gotten into a fight with a surgeon and lost. He wasn’t curious enough to inquire or otherwise find out, but the depth and size of them awarded some level of respect. There were more scars from animals or from previous encounters.

He returned to wiping down his wristblades, keeping idle attention on the Not-Prey in case he tried anything. 

After a few minutes, he started inching forward towards the fire, then a little closer; moving slowly and carefully like he thought the Hunter wasn’t paying attention.

The clothes, he realized, were the target. That he was going to slowly likely meant he intended to retrieve his knife and try to surprise attack the Hunter. Well, it wasn’t going to work. He allowed the Not-Prey to get close enough where a simple lean forward would reward him with his weapon; then just as easily, thrust his arm and the wristblades forward, giving him a warning hiss to stay back. The Not-Prey froze, expression morphing from cautious focus to fear. 

“No, no.” He held his hands up, shrinking away from the near threat of the wristblades. His voice was soft, restrained and forcefully calm, like the Hunter was a wounded animal he was trying to soothe. “I just wanna get my clothes, I just wanna get dressed.” 

The humans did like their clothes, and now the Not-Prey truly knew he was disadvantaged without his weapon.

With it, even. The Hunter hissed, a different tone and inflection— permission— and lowered his wristblades, putting them back in his lap to continue cleaning them. The Not-Prey dressed himself efficiently but with care to find where his body still hurt. He sat and stared at the sky, lost in thought. He fingered the bulge of his pocketknife in his back pocket and moved it to his front pocket, where it was more immediately available, but didn’t flip it open or make any threatening moves. The Prey put his hands on his knees instead and listed back, returning to the sky.

_ Guard down _ , the Hunter thought. The slight sedative effect of the medigel would have him dozing off soon. When the Prey’s eyes closed he opened up his wrist gauntlet and disassembled it to clean the internal mechanisms. That was the hardest and most involved part of cleaning gear, even when the technology was specifically designed to be easy to take apart and fix. He could do it faster. He’d already had some kills, though, and indulged the urge to enjoy the waning night and the crackling fire as the Prey dozed opposite him. 

The sky had lightened almost imperceptibly by the time the Prey woke again, blinking sleep from his eyes a few times and then skimming over the makeshift campsite, almost like he’d expected to be alone or else killed in his sleep. Then he checked his injuries again. That was constant, the Hunter was learning, keeping tabs on how he was feeling and functioning so he could adapt to whatever level of use his body had. 

Cunning Prey. When the Hunt began, it would be an interesting one. 

“I feel like I’m marked.”

He didn’t remember the Prey being this chatty before. Some people were loud during a Hunt, cocksure or purposefully attention-grabbing because they thought it would help them. This felt different somehow; more reserved. He grumbled, simple acknowledgement that he was listening. The Prey must have taken it as inquisitiveness or confusion, because he kept talking. “You know. Hunters will mark their prey. So they can come back and kill it later.” Yes, the Hunter was familiar with that. He had a circular tag that he could put on a prey to track it and claim it as his Hunt. “People like me… I guess people like me just have a mark, and everyone thinks we get to be hunted.”

His hand drifted to his chest, palm centered over where the Hunter knew one of the half-moon surgical scars was. Was that his  _ mark?  _ He didn’t seem to notice that he was doing it, either. His hand returned to his lap without further acknowledgment of the brief touch. “And I can’t go back. I’ll be blamed. I can’t do anything about it.” A noise, a laugh, but not a laugh in the way that the Hunter was used to human laughs being. It was frayed with despair, not amusement. The Prey rubbed his face. The medigel had soaked in long ago and now his skin was only minorly red. “I’m dead anyway.”

Did he expect a response? The Hunter thought over what he’d said, picking through the vocalizations for a suitable mimic. 

<< **Come back and kill it later.** >>

“You can,” the Prey responded. The Hunter wasn’t sure if it was permission or resignation. “I can’t do anything about it.” Definitely resignation. The Hunter hissed, curious and the slightest bit put off— the Prey had asked him to come back and kill him, in a way, five years ago. The Hunter didn’t care if he’d changed his mind, but he’d still prefer that feisty and vicious creature of the past over the despondent and defeated one sitting across from him now. 

“Yeah, after you let me go, we read a short story about a circus elephant. The ringmaster tied it with rope to a stake when it was a baby, and even though it tugged and tugged it was stuck. So it didn’t tug anymore. Then it grew up, and it never tried to get free even though it could. Because it had been taught that it couldn’t. Learned helplessness. ‘S what it’s called. It thought it couldn’t get free so it never tried.” 

<< **Thought.** >> The Hunter didn’t get that part. He wasn’t a big fan of metaphor or pretty language when something simple would do just as well, but humans were overly fond.

Apparently he’d said the right thing. The Prey laughed and shook his head.

“Yeah,  _ thought _ .” Oh. That made more sense. He hadn’t meant for it to be  _ encouraging _ . “You’ll get a fight outta me yet, huh?” 

He chittered— agreement. He certainly hoped so. The Prey seemed in higher spirits now. 

He started work on his Plasmacaster, taking it apart and putting the pieces in front of him to clean. 

“Be sporting.” The Prey was talking again. Yes, chatty. The Hunter was getting used to it-- it wasn’t annoying, like he’d expected it to be, but then-- hunts could be lonely. “Give me a head start, or something.” 

The Hunter recognized humor, and did indeed think it was funny. He laughed, clacking his mandibles together, but figured it was worth a shot after giving it a moment of thought. The Prey deserved it, and it would liven the Hunt-- after all this time, still a demanding little Prey.

<< **Head start.** >>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feel free to leave a kudos or tell me what you thought!


	5. The Hunt: Noah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It knew what it was doing, from the small part of aiming to the large part of finding the right vantage point to aim from and remain undetected. Noah was a good hunter. He went bowhunting in the fall and knew where to lay a snare.  
The hunter was a master. If it managed to get within striking distance, Noah was done for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> slow start, picks up, slows down again but in a good suffering way!

Noah didn’t know when his head start was going to begin, and the damn thing might think it was being funny by waiting just until he left its eyesight before starting a pursuit. He didn’t want to risk ticking it off by suggesting how far of a lead he should be allowed to get. Hell, he was lucky it had agreed to a head start at all.

He waited about another minute or so, tracking the gradual lightening of the sky. If he knew hunters, it would set off at sunrise. That gave him maybe a half hour if he was quick about it. Probably a little less. Today was supposed to be the hottest day of the season, which meant the hottest day of the year, so if his luck continued to hold out he’d be able to stick to the deepest part of the valley-- it was cooler there, and had plenty of hollows and things to hide behind.

Or up, but the hunter liked to go up too. It knew what it was doing, from the small part of aiming to the large part of finding the right vantage point to aim  _ from _ and remain undetected. Noah was a  _ good _ hunter. He went bowhunting in the fall and knew where to lay a snare. He could even see his trail cameras fastened around the trees at the feeding plots and more-traveled paths. If only he could use those...

The hunter was a master. If it managed to get within striking distance, Noah was done for, and it probably still had those throwing disc things and that shoulder-mounted cannon so  _ really _ Noah was done for as soon as the thing got a decent sight on him. Overkill, but Noah also had the feeling the thing didn’t know what  _ regular kill _ was.

It took ten minutes of walking to get to the clearing where three bodies were hanging, headless and skinless, by their feet. Their rifles were piled in a haphazard heap nestled between some protruding roots. Noah spent precious minutes choosing the best of the pile and nicking bullets from the others, tucking them in his pockets and retreating back to where the forest was thicker.

Near the base of the valley, there was a dense bramble patch with plentiful tunnels from small animals. He could try to hide there and hope it would obscure him; if the hunter passed by, he knew he’d have some time to run in the opposite direction. It might enter the patch, it might not, and in the meantime he grabbed a few mulberries off of a tree and ducked into the thicket. It restricted quickly; he had to get on his hands and knees, and then crawl on his belly until he got to an area that was obviously used as a nest at some point. It was large enough for him to sit cross-legged in part thanks to how the dirt beneath him was tamped down to form a depression of sorts, giving him two or three extra inches of headroom. The hollow was a few yards from the edge of the patch from any direction, and directly overhead was obscured by thorns and leaves 

Suddenly, he empathized with the rabbits that must have hidden in here; driven out by barking dogs that could squeeze through the brush, or gunshots that disturbed small birds that nested there. 

He idly picked a few gooseberries from the bush closest to him and ate those too. No point in dying on an empty stomach. It would be even  _ more  _ embarrassing than fucking up voluntarily if his stomach decided to rumble and give him away. 

He spent the remaining dawn relaxing himself as much as was possible. Eventually, though, the sky was fully light. He knew what was in store for him and it caused his chest to ache. He tucked himself down as far as he could into the depression in the soil, thinking of the sky; of hunting deer, and how silent and concealed he had to be then. He wished he had his bow. That was quiet, unlike the rifle. 

_ Why was he doing this? _ He wished he was fifteen again, not so he’d be spared but so he would be unafraid to die. He should have gone immediately back to the path and stolen the truck, taken it back to town, and said that there had been a hunting accident. It always happened when it got hot. 

He’d agreed to this. He’d asked for it. He really did deserve it. 

He pulled the rifle onto his lap and peered from a tiny break in the brambles in the direction of the campsite, imagining what the hunter must be doing; cleaning its weapons again? Eating? Putting out the fire, putting soil and rocks over it? Maybe it had set out already. Hopefully, it went the wrong way. Noah doubted it.

It took an hour for the hunter to pass by; it did so overhead, then dropped down at the edge of the bramble patch to check for footprints. It surveyed the surroundings; stared right at Noah, but then looked away and ambled off for a few footsteps. It faded back into nothing, rustling of leaves and a dipping branch showing that it had chosen the above path again. 

It left, continuing down an animal path.

Noah gave it ten minutes to create some distance, then crawled out with the rifle at his side. 

He wasn’t totally inattentive, though, and sunlight glinting where it should not was enough to make him scramble forward and break into a run as one of the throwing discs embedded itself into the ground. 

From the trajectory, the thing was nearly right above him. 

_ Damn, _ Noah thought to himself. It was a trap. Of course it was. Why else would it reveal itself when it had no need to? It knew Noah was hiding there and was trying to bait him out. Worse, it had succeeded.

He was used to hunting deer, or rabbits. Those were easy to figure out. They didn’t often retrace their steps or pivot to run past whoever was holding the gun. Evidently, the hunter knew better. Fuck the thing.  _ Fucker, _ Noah thought again, with more emphasis, shamed at being outsmarted and chilled with the knowledge of what was in store. He ducked behind a tree and dipped out long enough to fire a shot, but it managed to get out of the way at the same time he pulled the trigger, and it threw another of those throwing discs at him. It lodged into the trunk. Noah ran again. 

It was bigger. Faster. He couldn’t go back to the bramble patch, because he’d been found out and it wasn’t safe anymore. 

Luckily, the thing was also heavy and gave itself away running at full-tilt by all the sounds of sticks cracking and the solid impact of its feet on the ground. 

Noah was able to lead it on a wild goose chase, firing and reloading the rifle when he had the chance. The thing ate bullets like they were pebbles when Noah managed to get a shot in, and even if Noah managed to lose it every now and then it was never for long. Seconds. Less than that. He was just incredibly lucky that he’d stayed uninjured thus far. 

Noah dived around a tree, loading his last bullet, and hoped that this hit would do something.

He wasn’t surprised when it didn’t. It ricocheted off the thing’s pauldron and wasted time he could have used to keep running away.

He threw the dead-weight rifle at it, pulled out his pocketknife though only God knew what he was going to do with it, and ran again. He made it three steps before his left leg exploded in pain when he put weight on it; it had been injured, muscle severed, by something so sharp the pain hadn’t hit until he’d tried to use it. He caught himself, stumbled, and twisted himself around to plant his back against a tree. Blood streamed down his leg. It had been a clip-- that his leg was still there either meant he was far better at evasion than he thought he was, or it was purposefully playing with him.

Whatever urgency there might have been, it was gone now. The hunter was unhurried; it knew it had him. He leaned heavily against the sturdy tree trunk and held his knife out, teeth bared and grit.

It could end him with its shoulder-mounted gun or the extending sword on its back, but it brandished neither of those things and advanced on him with only its wristblades. The damn thing was sizing up its shot.

That could go both ways, and Noah wasn’t completely out of the game yet. Soon. Not _ yet _ .

He caught the swing against his knife. It took both hands on the handle to keep the edges away from his skin; they’d cut him to ribbons. His entire body tensed with the effort of pushing it away, more strength and force than he thought he could ever exert, until his forearms were shaking and the blades imperceptibly edged ever closer to his throat. 

What would the hunter not expect him to do?

He grit his teeth and lashed out with his injured leg, dead weight but a suitable weapon. He cried out-- bit it back and caged the rest inside of himself-- as the impact of his leg against the hunter’s knee sent tremors of white-hot agony all the way to his leg and into his hip. The hunter staggered to the side and withdrew its weapon from the blade-lock. Maybe it was pulling back? Maybe it was an  _ opening— _

Noah’s bad leg spasmed and his good leg buckled. 

He wasn’t given the opportunity to fall far; he saw it before he felt the pain, the wristblades skewering him through his shoulder, under his clavicle and piercing right through the bone in the back as if they were nothing more than brittle leaves. It lifted him up, back still pressed against the tree trunk. He didn’t scream. He wanted to scream. He’d never been in so much pain before in his life. He bit his lip so hard that it too exploded in pain and hot, coppery blood spilled into his mouth and down his chin. His heart beat, frantic, like there was still something he could  _ do.  _

He jerked like a fish on a line, lashing out with his good leg, striking it on the side of its helmet with his pocketknife. 

The damn pocketknife. It hadn’t helped him five years ago, it wouldn’t help him now. He pitched, bracing himself against the agony radiating from his pierced shoulder and the severed muscles in his leg, curling himself up to put his feet against the hunter’s chest and shove him back. Something in his bad leg popped and a fresh wave of pain seized him from the inside out, and his shoulder burned. He screamed, but no sound came out. 

The wristblades were sharp, but had notches cut into the curve of them, and the hunter had only been holding him with those. Noah’s kick was enough to push it back a few feet-- rip the blades from his shoulder and tear him open in a new way-- send him to fall, properly this time, connecting with the ground and knocking the air out of him. Spots danced in his vision but not enough to obscure the bulky figure of the hunter returning to stand over him. Reach for him with its other hand, the one that wasn’t covered in blood.

Really, all he was doing now was prolonging his death-- not saving his life, not anything heroic, just scrabbling in the dirt as he bled out. He still tried. It felt good to try, rather than lay there and wait, and as long as he kept moving he could convince himself he still had a chance. He clutched his pocketknife as tightly as he could and struck at the hunter, trying to hit its hand and succeeding in glancing off of its gauntlet. 

Again. It swatted his hand away, his tense and aching hand letting go of the pocketknife-- it fell away into the litter, and even when he grabbed the hunter by the wrist it wasn’t slowed at all. It gripped him by the front of his shirt and lifted him. Right. It liked its shows of strength. Noah kind of wished it would leave him there to suffer or else finish him quickly.

He knew better than that, though; after he shot a deer, even if he was sure it was dead, he’d creep from his hide with a knife to give it a mercy stroke. It was only humane. The deer didn’t ask to be shot. It was just trying to  _ live _ .

Where was  _ his  _ mercy stroke?

If he clung on, he could support himself the slightest bit. The hunter’s fist touched the bottom of his throat, and he was once again pushed against the tree. The movement was slicker now, helped along by the blood marring the bark. Quite a lot of blood, and his. He was starting to feel light-headed. The hunter raised its hand, wristblades bared with naked threat.

“ _ Wait, _ ” he said, not quite a cough but strained. He didn’t expect the hunter to wait, but it did. It let him hang, wristblades a mere inch from his chest. “It’s-- not because I don’t deserve to live.” Maybe the hunter would see it another way. Noah had to take something with him that wasn’t bad, though, even though his vision was starting to war with a pulsing tide of black. One of his hands slipped, colliding weakly with the metal of the thing’s helmet, then sliding in amongst the adorned dreadlocks flowing from beneath it. His breath caught, tighter somehow. “I’m worth hunting.”

<< **Worth hunting,** >> he heard, muffled as if from far away, and let his eyes close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter!


	6. The Hunt: Predator

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got sick as hell (also warframe got a new big update and i had to g r i n d) also it's finals week so i did literally everything except update this on saturday despite having it all written. here it is. i hope you enjoy the last chapter!

The Hunter expected the Prey to set off as soon as he knew he was getting a head start. He didn’t, though, not immediately; he looked past the canopy a few more times as the last clinging stars faded out. 

The Hunter would set off at sunrise. That gave the Prey enough time to do something and make it interesting. Then the Hunter could go over a few miles to the military base and continue the hunt there.

Yes, today was going to be a good day. 

Without an acknowledgement, the Prey stood and dusted itself off; disappeared back the way they came, looking down for the slightest moment for tracks. He was practiced. He knew the valley, and the Hunter would actually be disappointed if it was an easy Hunt. 

He had to reassemble his Plasmacaster before he was able to set off; he could do it on the move, but he had agreed to a head start. When he looked up again a few minutes later the thermogram revealed only songbirds, mice, and squirrels searching out food between the roots and leaves; the Prey wasn’t wasting any time. 

He waited until dawn was over, a rather protracted thing for how quickly the sun rose in summer, before setting out. The first part was tracking the Prey; normally, he’d simply wait for appropriate prey to stumble in front of him, or else stalk a foolish group or invite himself into their crafts or military bases, so this was a novel experience that didn’t necessarily feel bad. 

The Hunter looked around even though he knew he wouldn’t see anything, casting his mind to the moves the Prey was most likely to make. He already knew that he was different from others; maybe he would have ran to the edge of the forest and tried to disappear into the nearby town. Maybe he’d go down to the river and cross it, try to get rid of his tracks-- but he already knew how to hide his tracks, knew where to walk to make them imperceptible. Maybe he’d set off in one direction and then abruptly change. 

Unlikely. If the Hunter knew him, from prior experience and the way he’d clutched his pocketknife before tucking it away, unusable, his first priority would be arming himself-- that left only one place. 

The Hunter set off to the skinning site, looking out for traces and tracks on the way. Predictably, there were none-- he was starting to understand a little the allure of hunting the unhuntable. It wasn’t a very large forest, but certainly large enough for crafty prey to disappear into. If he didn’t know the moves his Prey would make in advance, he’d be completely out of luck. 

Then again, luck had nothing to do with this. 

He reached the skinning site. Little black birds were pecking at the bodies. Of the three rifles he’d piled up earlier, two were left, and their chambers were open; ammunition gone. From the make and shape he knew they were hunting rifles and the bullets wouldn’t be able to damage his armor. Maybe they’d pierce his hide, but the bullets weren’t even that large. They were for small animals, for deer maybe, for chasing off larger animals like foxes and wolves.

For killing people. They were already dead, and his hunt hadn’t even started back then, but the thought of the dead men above him interrupting his hunt made him growl in annoyance. 

The Hunter continued deeper into the valley, now following the theory that the Prey had kept on in a marginally straight line to put as much distance between the two as possible. That did nothing but prolong the Hunt; the Hunter was faster, had more stamina and could cover more ground. The effort of buying himself a few extra minutes wasn’t worth it.

It would be better to hide. A cunning Prey would hide. This Prey was cunning. As the Hunter neared the basin of the valley, he paid closer attention to the activity of wildlife. A hunter-- a Prey-- with a gun would alert them to flee. Heat signatures danced across his vision in the trees, among roots, but the bramble patch ahead was near-dead of heat with only a faint, distant puddle in the very center. The opposite side had activity, though, small spots hopping through the brambles.

Tunnels. Animal paths, too small for the Hunter to go through. 

Clever Prey. It would be the work of moments to extend his blade or even his wristblades and cut the brambles from the ground.

It would be better, though, to lull the Prey into a false sense of security; hacking down the brambles would give him time to run and the Hunter now knew better than to underestimate the Prey’s skill in putting distance between them. If he didn’t have his Bio-Helm, he wouldn’t have been able to spot him at all. He let himself come down to the forest floor just beyond the thorny barrier of the brambles, looking first to the outside; then, turning, locking on to the cross-legged figure concealed by woody vines. Then, looking away. Following a disturbance of leaves in the trees. He cloaked again and jumped back into the trees. 

Not a complicated trap, for sure, but effective; he knew the Prey could track him by the movement of branches from his weight, so had to actually move a bit. 

Technically honorable, and apparently from both sides. The Prey could have shot him in the back. It wouldn’t do anything and maybe he knew that, but if he’d been planning on a dirty trick that would have been the time to pull it. 

One good turn deserved another, as humans said, and it wouldn’t be very sporting to make the Prey die tangled in brambles. He carefully maneuvered to a sturdy tree with branches overhanging one of the exit tunnels. An absence of animal activity meant the Prey had gone in that way; he’d probably come out that way, too, especially if he thought the Hunter had continued on away from him. 

He waited.

A little more. 

He’d learned to be patient, but the Prey was right there for the taking. Why wasn’t he moving?

Just before he decided to go for a kill shot-- he was patient, _really_, but he’d been patient for nearly half of a day ever since he picked the Prey up out of the dirt-- the Prey got back down onto his belly, rifle tucked under his arm, and crawled to the exit. His thermogram signature became stronger as the distance closed. 

He drew back his throwing disc once he stood up, and just before it left his hand the Prey bolted forwards. He hadn’t even been directly looking! If not for being there and seeing it happen, the Hunter would have thought he was a cheater. 

The Prey ducked behind a tree. The Hunter knew what was coming after that-- he jerked to the side and the bullet missed completely. He threw his second disc, but it found purchase in the trunk and the Prey was long gone. 

He dislodged the disc and set off after him. 

The Prey knew how to bait him. He knew when the Hunter would try to get a move in, when he would open himself up; reacted then, when he had a split-second to act. The impact of bullets felt like bee stings, or dull thuds, sometimes not even like anything when they hit his armor. The rifles could only hold so much and he’d taken all the ammunition. He couldn’t keep doing this forever. 

The Hunter stayed on his tail, taking potshots with his throwing disc when he could. The damn thing never connected. It should-- it could track heat-- but the denseness of the forest and the unpredictable movement of the Prey complicated things. Thrill and frustration battled for control. He’d get him. It was only a matter of time.

He just needed to be patient and stay his offensive. He’d killed Xenomorphs before. This shouldn’t be so difficult. 

The Prey shot at him, then made a strange expression caught between annoyance and panic, and then threw the rifle at him. It didn’t hit. 

He_ threw_ the rifle at him. The _rifle_. At _him_.

Then he pulled out his pocketknife and kept running.

Evidently, throwing things at the Prey would get him nowhere, but now it felt like he had something to prove-- the _rifle_\-- so he tore the throwing disc from the tree it had lodged in and immediately threw it again. 

Not at his head. That had already failed-- the Hunter needed to get him to stop _moving_ first. He chose a new target. His leg, while it was lifted to take a step and before he put weight on it, right on the back of his calf. This time, it connected. 

Not bone. Skin. Muscle. It wasn’t a thorough enough slice to sever his lower leg from his body, but more than enough to make him stumble. He screamed at the pain, but it was still strangled and cut-off, too well-trained to last long at all. Blood came out in a spurt at first, then a slower ooze, soaking his jeans and splattering across the forest floor. The Prey stumbled back and pressed himself against a tree. He thrust the knife out, even though the Hunter was a distance away. He bared his teeth, naked threat. The Hunter caught himself mimicking the Prey, flaring his mandibles, but the Prey couldn’t see so he forced them back down. 

He engaged his wristblades, quickly determining the best angle, and struck.

He hit metal. The Prey was still fighting back! Both hands around his pocketknife this time, hazy pain and sharper determination sparking in his eyes as he pushed back against the Hunter’s blades. 

Something struck him in the side and the Prey made another of those strangled scream-cries. He stepped back with the movement, let him catch the air for a moment before scooping him up. Palm up. Fingers curled in, giving the blades the aim. It slotted neatly between his clavicle and first rib and then should have come up directly behind, before the scapula, but he felt mild resistance and a high-pitched, strangled noise from the Prey. No matter. He lifted him again and shoved him back against the tree. From there, the slightest movement down would slice his heart neatly in two. 

The Prey wasn’t silent, but the Hunter had figured that this would finally be the thing to draw howls of pain from him— he resisted, somehow, making whining, panting noises instead like a single scream was forced out on shuddering, restrained exhales. The Prey struck at him wildly with the knife like he was trying to knock his Bio-Helm off.

The Prey was jerking around. Trying to free himself? It wouldn’t work like that. He lofted him a little bit higher, reacting to the dull sensation of shoes against his chest, and caught on to the Prey’s plan a split-second too late-- he pushed. Not quite death throes, but the Prey didn’t have a lot of life left in him. He was using it all to struggle. To _fight_. It made the Hunter’s heart beat faster. The Prey fell fully to the ground this time. Blood covered his face. He’d bitten clear through his bottom lip at some point and it was bleeding profusely over his chin and cheeks.

He couldn’t run. He could barely fight back. It had been thrilling, but it was _over_ now. The Prey didn’t seem to understand that-- the Hunter went to pick him up and pierce him through properly and got smacked in the hand by the trapper knife for his trouble. The Prey tried again, so he cuffed his hand. The knife dropped from his hand and the Prey grabbed the Hunter by the wrist instead.

Strong, still. Tight. The Prey had both his hands on the Hunter’s wrist, pushing him away with little success. The Hunter got him by the front of his shirt, grabbing a tight handful so there was no chance for any more tricks, and pulled him into the air. He braced him against the tree. The bark was completely slick with blood, the Prey’s shirt gone from dull green to wet, heavy red.

Yes. A good Hunt.

He drew back his wristblades to finish it. The Prey’s eyes weren’t focused enough to widen, but he still made a weak squirming motion in the Hunter’s grip.

“_Wait._” 

He sounded awful. He was barely clear, voice catching on his own blood streaming down his throat. If he choked on it and damned himself with his own chattiness, the Hunter would laugh.

Still— this Hunt had been exciting, and enjoyable even in the frustrating parts in no small part thanks to the ingenuity of his Prey, so he waited. The wristblades were so close to his skin. Sharp enough he wouldn’t feel them for a long moment, if at all. If the Prey tried to beg for his life, he’d end him before he finished his plea. 

He didn’t, though. 

“It’s--” clearer, more forcefully. He licked at his split lip. “Not because I don’t deserve to live.” That must be what he was talking about earlier-- his mark, that made other people hunt him. The Prey’s eyes drifted shut for a moment, then opened. It took effort. He didn’t have very long, and the Hunter _would_ like to kill him instead of simply hold him up as he succumbed to his wounds. One of his hands slipped down, slick with blood. He wasn’t trying to hit the Hunter, but he did, palm smearing a wide swathe of blood onto his helmet. Sliding lower, into his dreadlocks. His grip tightened and the Prey made a strangled keening noise, breath catching as his throat was restricted. The Prey likely didn’t know what that meant, and likely didn’t intend anything by it by touching his dreadlocks, but it was a compliment, to Hunters. An acknowledgement of skill, recognition and praise between equals. “I’m worth hunting.”

His voice was faint. Blood was dripping from his mouth and shoulder, from his leg to the ground. 

He’d fought well. Put up a good chase. Hunters usually didn’t have to explain to prey that they were worthy, but then, Hunters didn’t normally see the same prey twice. 

<<**Worth hunting**,>> he repeated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a sort of... sequel to this called "sanctuary" that i may or may not post, it's unfinished and if i do finish it it will be over winter break. as always, please tell me what you thought of this chapter/the fic/leave a kudos!

**Author's Note:**

> maybe they'll meet again one day? stay tuned for the Predator POV chapter and feel free to tell me what you thought and/or leave a kudos!


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